


John Sheppard's Guide to Surviving Project Runway

by sheafrotherdon



Category: Project Runway (US) RPF, Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fusion, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-04-10
Updated: 2008-04-10
Packaged: 2017-10-12 01:09:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/119131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheafrotherdon/pseuds/sheafrotherdon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When John Sheppard applies for season six of Project Runway, it's mostly because he's bored.</p>
            </blockquote>





	John Sheppard's Guide to Surviving Project Runway

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dogeared](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dogeared/gifts).



> For dogeared, on the occasion of her birthday!

When John Sheppard applies for season six of Project Runway, it's mostly because he's bored. Eight months out of the military – discharged for giving a blowjob in what turned out to be the textbook definition of the wrong place at the wrong time – he spends his hours working the most unpopular shifts at _Wordsmith_ , the bookstore around the corner from his apartment, and finding out what happens when he sews together clashing fabrics at weird angles, just because he can. The urge to make clothes is something he never saw coming, but if he adds it to the list of things about his life that are surely driving his father crazy (California, hourly wage, manic espresso habit, shit-hole loft) it's maybe not so far out of left field. Sure, he's forty-one, and supposed to be past scoring points off his father's discomfort, but Patrick Sheppard's a son-of-a-bitch and John's okay with the fact that he never progressed (emotionally) past the age of thirteen.

Plus he's a badass with a pair of pinking shears.

Somehow, he's selected from the hoards that show up in LA. Some kid from season three, who's wearing an awful lot of make-up, gushes that his second outfit, a dress that he's privately nicknamed 'vomit in an F-16', is "divine" – and before he can really take it in, John's on a flight to New York with a carry-on containing seven black t-shirts, seven pairs of boxers, an extra pair of jeans, and a jacket that he'll wear only if it randomly starts to snow in June. He meets two other contestants at the curbside pickup – some guy called Ronon who's about seven feet tall, toting a duffel the size of John's apartment, and an exuberant mom-type – Elizabeth – whose handshake puts John's to shame. "I can't wait to get started," she tells him, and her smile's genuine, her dedication clear.

"I cut my fabric with knives," Ronon offers.

"Okay, buddy," John nods, and gets in the car.

Their apartment's in the garment district -- opulent, if a little cramped, and the production team's already decided who's bunking with whom. John figures they probably matched people with the hope of creating ratings-worthy drama, so he's not surprised to find his roommate is a 40 year old ex-physicist who never stops talking and who's simultaneously managed to hang all his shirts in color-palette order _and_ scatter his socks across the breadth of the room.

"I'm very allergic to citrus," the guy tells him (Rodney, his name is Rodney). "Deathly allergic, so no shenanigans with lemons, thank you very much."

John crooks an eyebrow. "Shenanigans," he repeats.

"Hmmph," Rodney says, and disappears into the bathroom.

*****

Their first challenge is to create an outfit inspired by a fictional character, so John picks Batman, because _duh_. He can see the dress in his mind – severe and sculpted from the front, with a hidden zipper and a train that hangs from the shoulders, fanning out as the model walks the runway to suggest the barest hint of flight. He hunts down the fabric he needs, only peripherally aware of the squawking two aisles over ("I said _silver_ , not platinum! Do you have the faintest idea which color is which? How have you not been fired, already?") picks out leather and silk, a hint of organza, everything in black, and he's at the cash desk by five after four. Ronon shows up next. "Sonic the Hedgehog," he says, showing John a bag of blue fabric. He glances up at the top of John's head. "Nice hair."

"Thanks," John says. He gestures at Ronon's dreads. "You too." He thinks they just bonded.

Back at Parson's, there's a scramble for tables, and an industrious quiet settles over the room – the kind that's made up of low-level swearing and the rasp of scissors cutting silk, the click of someone's heels (Larrin? Or maybe Kolya – John swears there are lifts in his boots) and the frantic whispers of the production team. "Genius here!" Rodney snaps, elbowing past Adria to get to a box of pins, and in the far corner, someone's singing Dylan tunes. John cuts and drapes, falls into the rhythm of it – discovers that Rodney's bitching has a soothing quality after a while; actively prefers it to Lindsey Novak's under-the-breath chant of 'You can do it, you can do it,' interrupted by periodic bouts of hiccups. She seems to be making an alien; at least that's what the big hood on the silvery cape looks like. John hopes it's intentional, or Nina Garcia's going to have a fit.

"Do I _look_ like I have time to go into hypoglycemic shock?" Rodney yells later in the afternoon, just as John's hand-stitching the boning to the inside of his bodice. "Food! Immediately! I will sue you, you know; sue you for wrongful death and pain and suffering and _yes_ , I'm aware that I can't sue from beyond the grave, not under present circumstances, but if there's a way to bend space and time and _come back to haunt you_ , you, you, _snippet_ ," Rodney spits, waving a finger at the production assistant who's high-tailing it from the room, "I will do it!"

The producer's not so easily intimidated. "We'll get you food," she says. "There's coffee in the green room and pastries for the time being . . . "

"Which have been there since this morning! How are we expected to work under these conditions?"

"Rodney – "

" _Heightmeyer_ ," Rodney yells back.

Which is when John's stomach growls so loud that even Teyla looks up, clear from the other side of the workroom. "Oops," John says, deadpan.

Rodney flashes him a look of triumph. "TWO of us will sue you," he says, turning back to Heightmeyer. "TWO."

And John has to duck his head to hide his smile.

"We make a good team," confesses Rodney in a low whisper half an hour later as they stand elbow-to-elbow, shoveling pasta into their mouths as fast as they can.

"Uh-huh?" John says non-commitally.

"And at least you're talented," Rodney says, chewing as though he's on speed (a real possibility, John decides). "Unlike Todd. Did you _see_ that gothic monstrosity he's creating? _God._ He has to be from Baltimore."

"Texas," John says, reaching for a bottle of water. "Used to be in a cult. Wraith-something."

Rodney blinks at him. "Cult?"

John nods, cracking the cap on his bottle. "Believed in – I dunno. Blood-sucking. Something or other."

"Oh well, that's just _great_ ," Rodney mutters. "Now I have to worry I'll have my blood drained in my sleep." He glances at John. "I think we should make a mutual defense pact."

"Like NATO?" John asks, confused.

"Oh god, _military_ ," Rodney sighs. "Yes, sure, if you, well, no, actually. Whatever – if Todd comes to drink your blood in your sleep, I'll stab him with my shears. And if Todd comes to drink _my_ blood . . ."

"Likewise," John nods solemnly.

"Excellent." Rodney pitches his empty paper plate into the trash. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have to return to my undoubtedly winning design."

"Who you making?" John calls after him.

"God," Rodney shouts back.

John considers that for a second. "Figures," he says to himself.

*****

It's Lorne, the guy who keeps telling everyone watercolors are his best medium, who gets auf'd after the first runway show. It's not exactly surprising – reworking the idea of Pokémon into a soft yellow and brown pantsuit (studded with rhinestones in homage to Thomas Kinkade and his points of light) is one of the uglier creations John's been witness to in his life – but John still wishes they'd kicked off Kolya. Any fifty-year-old guy who claims Anne of Green Gables is his hero is 100% creepy in John's book, even if it does explain the Amish vibe to the whole ensemble (although not the velvet holster strapped to the model's thigh). It's Adria who wins the first round, much to everyone's surprise, but as Michael Kors points out, it's a bold move to reinterpret _Run, Spot, Run_ as a ballgown, and the golden neck brace-cum-collar is a unique touch.

"I believe she wishes to eat our brains," Teyla whispers to John, and it's only by the grace of his special-ops training that he doesn't bray out loud.

They get their second challenge before they go home – an outfit representing some facet of nature; cards with specific directions will be drawn in the morning – and Rodney slumps in the cab beside John practically weeping at the idea. "Nature," he says plaintively. "Who pays attention to _nature_?"

John pats his thigh reassuringly. "I'm sure they'll let you make something out of concrete before it's over," he offers.

"Nnnnnnnnn," Rodney whines, and promptly falls asleep.

*****

By challenge number six they've said goodbye to Novak, Chaya, Radek and Kolya, but then someone finds out Ford's been shooting up between takes, and he's sent off to rehab. "Everyone, could I ask you to gather round?" asks Tim Gunn, breaking into their morning of re-imagining Victorian fashion. John's never spent so much time thinking about bustles and wiring in his life. "As most of you know, Aiden was forced to withdraw from the show today because of health problems."

"Crackhead," Todd says, very low.

"I've talked to the producers, and we've agreed on a plan of action. So join me in welcoming an old friend . . . . Acastus Kolya, everyone."

There's dead silence as Kolya walks into the workroom. One of the production assistants clears her throat nervously. The camera tracks everyone's expressions – derision, doubt, disgust, fear. After ten days of Stockholm syndrome bonding, lines have been drawn, teams (of a kind) identified. Kolya doesn't fit.

John decides he better be the one to break the ice. "Kolya," he says as nicely as he can manage – which, truthfully, isn't all that nicely at all.

"Sheppard," Kolya smirks. "Ready for battle?"

Rodney snorts. "Oh, please. Like your draping is a patch on his," he scoffs. "You've been booted off once, Kolya – don't get comfortable, we'll do it again."

Kolya inclines his head. "Is that so, Doctor McKay?"

Teyla folds her arms and shifts closer to Rodney's side. Ronon spins a pair of scissors on his fingers.

"Designers?" says Tim, a note of warning in his voice. "We have work to do. Let's have an amicable challenge, and let the best designer win." He claps his hands once as if to bring an end to the matter, waves them all back to their tables. John stands, arms folded, holding eye contact with Kolya as everyone else drifts away.

"Perhaps you should return to your work," Kolya says graciously. "I'm sure you'll need every minute."

"Nah," John drawls, smiling lazily. "Plenty of time yet. You on the other hand . . ."

Kolya raises an eyebrow. "Hmm?"

John hitches a shoulder, injecting the gesture with as much laconic insolence as he can manage. "Can't wait to see what you come up with. Hooped skirts your thing?"

Kolya narrows his eyes and takes a step forward, but Cadman interrupts. "HEY," she yells. "Mooses in Yellowstone, get the fuck back to work. The fog of testosterone's choking me."

John grins at Kolya, then at the rest of the room, and does as he's told.

****

"He's not even that good!" Rodney protests late that night, swigging industriously from a bottle of beer, trying – like the rest of them – to wind down enough to go to sleep. "I mean, if Chairman Mao chic is your thing, or you've got a itch for Mennonite arms dealers, sure, I can see how you'd mistakenly think he's some kind of evil genius, but god, am I the only one who thinks he's so first-run Battlestar Galactica?"

"I had such a crush on Dirk Benedict," Elizabeth sighs.

"Was this body of work before The A-Team?" Teyla asks, pulling up her legs to sit crossed-legged on the couch. "I am unfamiliar with his early shows."

"Mmmmm," Elizabeth nods. "It was his big break. He looked so good in brown."

"Hello? Discussing vaguely psychotic designers here?" Rodney reminds them.

"Eh," John offers. "He's just over-confident. Doesn't he have his own company already?"

"Genii," Elizabeth nods. "Based in Idaho."

" _Idaho_?" Rodney splutters.

"So he's probably used to having minions," John suggests. "People telling him he's great."

"I heard he got started in the industrial garment industry," Teyla says archly.

There's a long, stunned silence. "He designed _uniforms_?" Elizabeth asks.

"For custodial workers and certain casinos, if my intelligence is correct," Teyla nods. "There was a brief period in which he also accepted contracts for nursing scrubs, but found the pastels too . . . .challenging."

There's quiet while everyone digests the concept of Kolya working with cheery, child-friendly prints. "Maybe that's why he's so fond of olive green?" Elizabeth asks. "A backlash?"

"Or, I don't know, maybe he's just completely psychotic?" Rodney shoots back. "Jesus, I need another beer."

When they roll into Parson's next morning, they find Kolya still at his desk, riding the tail end of an overnight extension. His outfit is, predictably, fashioned mostly of olive sateen, with an overlay of netting that John last saw draped on military issues tents in Afghanistan. "Nice," he offers dryly. "What's the theme? Cross-dressing soldiers gone wild?"

"Susan B. Anthony, armed," Kolya offers calmly. And sure enough, there's a necklace of tiny muskets laid out on the workbench. John blinks, mouths, "you're right," at Rodney across the workroom, and goes back to the lace collar that needs finishing on his gown. His model needs to look heroin chic if he's to offset the delicacy of the bodice, and it's easy enough to forget Kolya when he's absorbed by the mental choice between black and charcoal-gray eye shadow – so much so that he's slow to realize that the yelling building around him after an hour isn't the usual kind.

"Kolya – put it down," Elizabeth orders, and John looks up, blinking – he had no idea she could sound like that.

"What the – "

"I have had enough of his constant twittering," Kolya replies, and John realizes he has Rodney in a choke-hold, the blade of a pair of shears pressed tight against Rodney's inner arm.

"I _do not twitter_ ," Rodney protests, then yelps as Kolya presses down, blood welling up where Kolya begins to cut, and John doesn't remember too much else until Kolya's lying face down on the floor with Ronon pinning his hands behind his back. John's jaw stings and the toes on his right foot tingle some – it's entirely possible he just kicked the shit out of Kolya from behind, got into a fist fight, and was saved by Ronon's bulk.

"Huh," he says, peering at Rodney. "You okay?"

Rodney's pale, and his hand's clamped to the cut on his arm. "Sort of?" he replies. "You were, uh – "

"Gentlemen, I think we'd better get Rodney some medical attention, and – " Elizabeth snaps her fingers toward the camera. "Put that thing down and call security, get this man out of here."

John's not surprised when everyone obeys, and in the next second resolves not to think about fast he went ape-shit on Rodney's behalf, ever again.

*****

There are long debates after Kolya's hauled away – who should stay on the show, who should be booted for aberrant behavior. John wanders off to the green room while Larrin and Cadman are busy shouting each other down – it seems that Larrin and Kolya have had a thing going on the side which, considering their mutual love of chains as accessories, surprises no one. John pours a cup of coffee – fresh made; the production assistants probably did it for want of knowing what the hell else to do – and stands by the window, looking down into the sprawl of the city below.

"I hear that Rodney required only five stitches," Teyla says, materializing at his side. "And will return none the worse for wear."

"That's good." John nods, sips his coffee. "Any decisions?"

"They are still talking. But I feel sure that we will all be allowed to return to work soon."

John laughs a little bitterly. "They'll boot someone."

"Perhaps. But it will be for the quality of their design work or the lack thereof," Teyla offers calmly. "There is no other cause."

John feels the corner of his mouth twitch up, as though some part of him wants to smile. "Wish I had your confidence."

Teyla openly meets his gaze. "I believe you have had experiences that cause you to doubt the general fairness of the world," she suggests.

John turns a little, leans one shoulder against the window. "More intelligence?" he asks.

"I have . . . people," Teyla concedes.

John laughs softly. "So what do you know? The name of the guy I blew? The guys who died because I couldn't get back in time? The – "

Teyla places a gentle hand on his arm. "I know that you are extremely talented, and I very much hope you will make it to Bryant Park."

"Oh." John shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot. "Huh. Okay."

"Perhaps you would like to return to the workroom with me? We should not lose time once Rodney returns from the hospital. There is much to be done."

"Yeah." John stares at her hand where it still rests on his arm. "Yeah, you're right."

"And I will cease touching you now," she says, teasing him. "Although it would be a great advantage to me to let your blood pressure continue to rise."

"Ha," he says, chagrined, setting down his coffee cup. "Like you need the help, with that thing you're concocting."

"All is fair in war," Teyla says solemnly, but her eyes sparkle. "And possibly in love, although I suspect that emotion runs in a different direction where you are concerned."

It's been a long day. John doesn't even try to work out what she means.

*****

"It's saggy," says Michael Kors. "Her boobs are everywhere – she picks up the pace and they're going to make a break for it."

"Would that be so bad?" Larrin asks. "Sure the female form is – "

"Oh, please," Nina breaks in. "We all admire the female form; you're designing dresses _for_ the female form – but if your goal is to display the female form without a gown of any kind, I suggest you work for Playboy. This is unacceptable."

"Ronon," Heidi says, redirecting. "Tell us about your piece."

"It's so she can ride," Ronon offers, gesturing at the slit up the side of the long, leather skirt his model wears. "Side saddle if she wants, Western'd be best."

"It's certainly a new way of looking at the Victorian era," Heidi suggests. "Do you mean her to be a cowboy?"

"No," says Ronon. "Just, you know – independent."

"I like the color," Michael offers. "I like the natural leathers, I like the bodice. I'm not crazy about the hat, but . . ."

"I hate the hat," says Nina. "It's too Madonna, five years ago. It's been done."

"But the tailoring – " Heidi points out.

"It's beautiful, you really do have a great eye for detail," Nina concedes. "I like the way you worked the seams to be more visible, part of the aesthetic – it's rustic without being _backward_."

"It's not my style at all," says Oberoth, guest designer of the day. "But I can how it might appeal to certain consumers."

Ronon stares him down. "Sure."

"And Elizabeth," says Heidi. "Your piece?"

John watches as Elizabeth fiddles with her pendant – there's something about this runway show that's making her nervous in a way she's never been nervous before. It can't be her gown – the cut's enviable, the sewing perfect, and the quarter-hoop she's used to make the skirt of her dress billow out in the back is innovative in all the ways Nina loves. The color's even pretty – a soft rose pink that doesn't make John want to gag, which is pretty much a miracle. (His dress is black again, with a multicolored panel in the back just so Heidi could stop bitching about funerals.)

He glances at Rodney, who's picking at the bandage on his arm.

Maybe it's Oberoth, John muses, since it's a happier line of thought than considering Kolya again. Oberoth's talented – dressed Kate Walsh at the Emmys and Charlize Theron at the Oscars, but he's an unsettling guy – all fixed intensity and modulated vowels. John can't get comfortable around him, an old white guy who's pretty much wearing a robe, even if the piping is well done, so maybe it's no surprise that Elizabeth's on edge, especially after taking charge when Kolya pulled his stunt. He winces as Elizabeth stammers and trips over her words, rejoices a little when she tips her chin up and seems to collect herself, reassert her usual, indefatigable character. He glances back at Rodney, catches him staring back, feels his ears go pink under that gaze.

"Thank you everyone. You can leave the runway," Heidi instructs, and John only really gets what she's saying because Rodney shoves him in the back to get him moving. It's going to look great on TV, like he's half out of his mind, but then after the Kolya business, he doesn't much care.

"You okay, buddy?" he blurts as Rodney shoves past him and collapses on a sofa backstage. There's something urgent and uncertain prickling at his chest.

"They hated it," Rodney says bitterly. "They hated it. Nina said it was _derivative_."

Clothes. Right. John takes a breath, tries to steady his thoughts. "You got your arm cut open this morning," he points out. "You really think they're going to boot you off after that?"

"Oh, _nice_ ," Rodney splutters. "So what, I'm a charity case now? I only get to be here because I'm injured? I'll have you know, John Sheppard, that I was hemming at age five, and that my ability to sight-sketch a pattern is unparalleled in at _least_ two nations, and – "

"You're so great that you couldn't cut it in physics and had to come here," Larrin offers, folding her arms across the back of a chair. "Boo-fucking-hoo."

"Get your facts straight," Rodney says witheringly. "This is my _hobby_. This is what I'm doing in my _sabbatical_. And if you think the principles of physics don't apply to the proper use of undergarments beneath a well-constructed outfit that . . ."

"Wah, wah, wah," Larrin replies.

"Can I kill her?" Rodney asks Teyla.

"Not today," Teyla replies, and sounds honestly disappointed.

In the end they're saved from the spectacle of more violence when Larrin's sent home. Time speeds up after that, maybe because John's hyper aware of Rodney every moment of every day, and the clock's ticking down the limited amount of time they'll be spending together. They lose Cadman on the next challenge, Todd the one after, and though John's in the bottom two for the music challenge (which Rodney wins with his interpretation of a piano arpeggio, beautifully realized in ivory and black), it's Adria who's auf'd, having failed to imaginatively repackage the glockenspiel into something appropriately delicate. "If your instrument had been the kettledrum, maybe," Nina tells her, gesturing at the metallic mini-dress Adria has on offer.

"I wanted to marry her right there and then," Rodney confesses that night. " _If your instrument had been the kettledrum_ ," he repeats in awe.

"You're gay," Ronon observes.

"Well, yes, but such is the power of a well-honed insult to turn my head!" Rodney says, gesturing helplessly. "I'm a weak and feeble man!"

John wants to trip Nina Garcia the next time he sees her, which he takes as positive proof that he's going crazy.

Challenge number eleven is Elizabeth's to lose – a contemporary wedding dress competition in which patterns are banned and the whole thing has to be draped. "Soft science," Rodney mutters bitterly. "Imprecise, hackneyed, half-wit form of design."

"It'll be pretty," John says, just to watch Rodney's face turn red. It's the closest thing to foreplay he's discovered without actually pawing Rodney right out in the open.

" _Pretty_?" Rodney repeats. "Pretty! Oh, well then, let's just go Grecian and not _care_ about the superior approaches of . . ." He pauses and narrows his eyes. "Are you fucking with me?"

John grins broadly. "Yep."

"Fuck off," Rodney says, and goes back to grumbling fondly over his sketchbook. "Fuck off, all of you. Everyone, just fuck off."

But Elizabeth, despite the fact that draping is her thing, is off her game; can't figure out a silhouette that seems satisfying; she pins and unpins again and again.

"She is having tremendous difficulty," Teyla murmurs to John as they're bent over sewing machines in the offshoot workroom. "This has been building for some time."

"Yeah," he agrees, reluctantly. "Since ten or so. The one with Oberoth. Smug bastard."

"She has not won since eight."

"No." John bites off a spare thread of cotton. "She's just been getting more and more obsessed with that motif she's been working on."

"The small silver squares?" Teyla asks. "I have noticed them too. They were unusual, but not obtrusive at first. Now they seem to occupy most of her design. I believe she is trying to find balance between the motif and the draping required of this project and finding it almost impossible to resolve."

John shakes his head slowly, squinting at his fabric. "Why would she go angular? Rodney's the angular guy – modern and ornery and stuff."

"It is puzzling," Teyla replies. "I enjoyed the mediation she was able to broker between fabrics in the earlier challenges. Now she seems to have . . . surrendered that ability."

"Maybe it's just the pressure," John offers.

Teyla looks off toward the workroom doors. "Perhaps," she says. "Perhaps that is, indeed, the cause. But I fear . . . " She smiles at him sadly, and shrugs as though at a loss. "Time will tell."

*****

"Ronon," Tim says, one hand cupping his elbow, the other covering at his mouth. "Explain this to me. I need to understand your vision."

"Shotgun wedding," Ronon says, gesturing. "She's bitter."

"Which is why all the knives?"

"Yeah."

"Hmmmm." Tim tilts his head. "It's not speaking to me."

"Maybe 'cause you're never gonna be in a shotgun wedding," Ronon shrugs.

Tim laughs. "Well. That's true enough." He drops his defensive posture, hands coming to rest on his hips. "Still – I think you need to edit. We don't want this to look overly designed. Ask yourself – what would Nina say?"

"Shiny?" Ronon suggests, deadpan.

Tim chuckles, and pats his shoulder. "We can live in hope," he offers. "Carry on. Rodney . . . "

" _God_. Just what I need," Rodney says snippily, spinning on his stool.

"Things not going well? We seem a little pressured."

"We do, do we?" asks Rodney, chin tilted up defiantly. "And exactly what pressure would _you_ be under, hmmm?"

Tim purses his lips benevolently. "Talk to me."

Rodney sighs. "Yes, yes, design therapy, so useful. Well –" he gestures dismissively, "you can see I opted for a non-traditional color."

"Blue. Very bold."

"Blue was the traditional color for brides in the west before everyone got so damn _virginal_ ," Rodney snaps. "And really, who the hell looks good in white? It's a travesty, perpetrated up and down the length of several continents, that so many brides feel bound and determined to wrap themselves in white satin _sausage casings_ and take photos of the occasion as if it's something to be proud of."

Tim waves a finger. "And the shoulder straps. They seem a little – "

"Brilliant?" Rodney asks witheringly.

"I was going to say chunky."

"Yes, well, I'm trying to keep the girls in check. Nina's made her feelings about runaway breasts quite clear and it's not as if I'm anxious to see a model _dishabille_. If there's going to be nakedness, the least it could be is _male_. Ronon, for example. John." He colors. "Or, you know, me. Or you. Or . . . well, not actually Michael Kors since I'm quite sure we'll find the pilfered soul of Ralph Lauren pinned to his heart, but . . ."

Tim chortles happily. "I think Ralph would be quite surprised to hear he's missing his _soul_."

"Why? It's not like he had one to begin with, judging by his clothing line," Rodney shoots back. "Polo shirts? The work of the _devil_."

"Well, so long as you can defend your choices . . ."

Rodney stares at him as though he's impaired. "Am I _ever_ at a loss for words?"

Tim struggles to keep a straight face. "Make it work."

"I'll make you work, you straight-laced . . ." Rodney mumbles as Tim amble away.

"Teyla," Tim says in greeting as he approaches the far workstation. "You look troubled?"

"I am not sure that the lower part of the skirt works quite as I had imagined," Teyla concedes. "I had conceived of something more elegant than I have presently achieved and . . ."

"Hmmm. I see what you mean." Tim circles the dress. "This is not your best work."

"No, no it is not," Teyla sighs.

Tim eyes her dress thoughtfully. "It may be appropriate to begin again."

"You think it has come to such an end?" Teyla asks.

"Remember what Heidi said about Todd's full-length jacket?"

Teyla sighs. "Yes, that is a good point. I would hate to seem as thought the 1980s were my primary point of inspiration."

"Or as though you're slavishly devoted to The Cure."

"That is not a good impression to make at a wedding."

"No." Tim pats her shoulder. "Rally! You're talented! You can do this! I believe in you!"

Teyla lets out a long breath, drop kicks her dress form, and rips the fabric from the skirt. "Much better," she murmurs.

"Quite," Tim nods, and turns to head toward Elizabeth's space.

"I want the cellular commitment of marriage to be apparent," Elizabeth says as soon as he's in hearing distance. "I want the very marrow of the ceremony to be clear, the block by block building of a new life to be expressed by . . ."

"This is ugly," Tim says, pointing to the silver squares tacked all over her garment. "It's 1970s disco rodeo. It's my grandmother's 65th birthday party in the back room of the local Applebee's. Elizabeth, please, what is going on here?"

"I just – it's important," Elizabeth says, feverishly tacking more squares to the skirt. "I – I think I can do this. I think I can make it say what it needs to say."

"You can do better," Tim warns.

"This _is_ better than . . ."

"Edit! Use your editing eye, Elizabeth. I'm trusting you on this."

Elizabeth nods, and Tim turns to leave her workspace, which means, John realizes, there's only one place left for him to go.

"Black?" Tim asks him.

John spreads his hands. "She's protesting the Defense of Marriage Act," he offers.

Tim covers his face and sighs from what's probably the bottom of his soul.

*****

"I didn't want Elizabeth to get booted," Rodney whispers late that night when they're tucked up in their respective too-small beds, trying and failing to sleep. "Not that I wanted _any_ of us to go, in particular, but – "

John sighs. "I get it, buddy," he confesses. "She was . . . she was great."

"Calm," Rodney says. "Until the end there. Steady." He lets out an unhappy breath and rubs his face against his pillow. "And they're going to boot one of the four of us next and . . ."

"Don't think about it."

"But I _do_ think about it. I like all of you! Not your clothes, necessarily, because Ronon keeps using sharp objects and you're just aesthetically challenged on every level, but I like you as people." He pauses. "Do you know how unusual it is for me to like three other people at once?"

"I can guess," John offers.

"I just . . . don't want anyone else to go home. I like this."

John hears the note of frustration and loneliness Rodney's trying to hide. "We'll stay in touch."

Rodney huffs. "Oh, _please_. Try and patronize me a little more."

John pushes himself up on his elbow. "Why wouldn't I stay in touch?"

"Because this is artificial," Rodney says. "It's all fueled by no sleep and stupid judgments about clothes we have all of five minutes to make, and when we lose that we'll lose all the rest of it. Do you really think we'll hear from Elizabeth ever again?"

John slumps back down. "I hope so."

"Yeah." Rodney sighs again. "And I like you, you know."

John blinks and looks at the ceiling, trying to parse Rodney's tone of voice. "You . . . what?"

But Rodney's conveniently asleep.

*****

If John thinks he's tired and at the end of his rope when he wakes up next morning, body aching from sleep deprivation, stomach rebelling at the thought of more caffeine, mind doing somersaults over Rodney's "I like you," it's nothing to how he feels when Heidi tells them the final challenge that decides who goes to Bryant Park. "Welcome your models," she grins cheerily, and out walks John's ex-wife, Nancy, prim as the day she was born. Despite his fervent prayers, the ground does not open up beneath his feet.

"Shit," Rodney says beside him. "That's my sister."

"Marta!" says Teyla, sounding overjoyed.

"Huh," Ronon says. "Ara? I thought you'd like . . . OD'd."

This is going to be special.

Predictably, Ronon gets Teyla's friend, and Teyla gets Ronon's buddy from ROTC. Rodney's paired up with Nancy, and Jeannie, Rodney's sister, ends up sitting on John's one usable stool. "Hi," she says, beaming. "Did Mer even mention me?"

"Mer?" John says, looking over to where Rodney is grinning brilliantly at Nancy. "His name's Mer?" Nancy and Rodney burst into laughter, and John grimaces violently as his stomach pinches and churns. He's not especially proud of the impulse, but he gestures the camera crew over, prompts Jeannie to tell the story of Rodney's first name. It's petty of him, he realizes, but like Teyla said, all's fair in war and stuff, and John's going to be spending the immediate future in the same room as his ex wife and godammit, he likes Rodney, it's crystal clear in his head now that he's sufficiently annoyed. He likes Rodney, and he can't have Rodney, because this is a competition, and Rodney's making clothes for his _ex-fucking-wife_. And there's no good ending here, because one of the four of them isn't going to Bryant Park, and no matter what, Rodney's right, the whole thing's artificial. What will they have in common when they're not penned into an apartment anymore, being filmed as if they're some kind of zoo animals, forced to get along so that they don't grow more crazy than they already are?

"Are you okay?" Jeannie asks. The film crew's wandered off to shoot Teyla pinning swatches of fabric to Ara's shirt.

"Wanna help me get to Bryant Park?" John asks.

"Damn right I do," Jeannie nods. "Provided I don't have to wear sackcloth or anything that shows my nipples."

John laughs and promises he'll do his best. "Now talk to me," he tells her. "Tell me who I'm making this for."

Jeannie's a physics PhD, a mom and a wife, someone who loves chocolate only marginally less than fractal equations. She's never really been told she's beautiful by anyone she believes isn't biased – "Caleb doesn't count," she fusses. "He has to say that or he'll never get laid again," – and she thinks her hips are too wide. She can't see what John does – blue eyes that run in the family, the workings of a unique brain, a cascade of beautiful hair, a smile that makes him sketch new ideas just to see if he can make her grin wider. She's fantastically smart, processes the world pretty much like Rodney, looks at John's pencil lines and sees angles she can explain and explode with calculus and wormhole theory, colors that shift because of particles and waves. When she leaves, escorted by Tim to spend the day being pampered with Nancy, Ara, and Marta, John jots down a list of things to buy at _Mood_ , buttons and fabric possibilities. He even smudges color along the edge of the paper to remember what he's seen with his mind's eye.

"Is she – " Rodney halts a couple of steps away, folding and refolding a piece of paper. "Is she okay?"

John looks up and aches a little for the look on Rodney's face. "She's great. She misses you," he says, and something in him twists and falls away at the crooked smile Rodney offers in return.

Everything's a blur once they come back with fabric – John tears off paper from the roll at the back of the room, sketches out a pattern, cuts and pins, tacks and sews, catches the organza overlay to the silk beneath with tiny stitches that make his fingers cramp and his eyes blur. When midnight rolls around he shuffles to the elevator, leans against Rodney on the ride down to their cab.

"Last night," Rodney whispers as they're drifting off to sleep.

John pretends he's dreaming, because there's nothing he can say to that.

Next morning comes too quickly. John's run out of t-shirts – he forgot to send them down in the laundry – but he finds one he doesn't think stinks too bad, and his favorite pair of jeans can stink all they want, he's still going to wear them anyway. He runs a hand full of product through his hair, squints at the way it looks like each individual hair's trying to make a run for it in a completely different direction, and decides, "fuck it," grabs his sunglasses and runs down the stairs to try and wake up.

At Parson's, everything's a whirlwind of final fittings, seam allowances, catching up hems, and shuttling everyone to hair and make up. John's already talked to Caldwell, the L'Oreal hair guy, and when Jeanie comes back with her hair caught up at the back of her head, a Grecian goddess of golden curls, John's honest-to-god struck dumb.

"Is it okay?" she asks, reaching to pull at it.

"Touch it, and you die," John offers, and she laughs and takes the dress to change behind a screen.

The dress is nothing like he's ever made before – it's abstract, and bounded by mathematics, his idea of what an event horizon would look like, spinning around the female form. The dress is blue – several different shades – and as Jeannie walks it ripples and sways like a thing alive, like a fraction of space caught in the hollow of someone's hand. "It's gorgeous," she tells him, and her eyes are bright.

"You can't cry," he tells her, mock stern. "I don't retouch make-up."

And she laughs and lets him help her into a pair of impractical silver heels, takes his elbow as they walk down the hall, grows more confident as she gets used to her new height and the effortless way her hips want to swing, and when she steps out onto the runway, she's lit up so hard that John hears Rodney gasp, "Whoah." Rodney watches her closely every moment that she's on stage, and when she disappears behind the screen again, turns to John and shakes his head, a little pale, seemingly awed.

But the surprises aren't over, John realizes when he looks up and sees Nancy pausing before stepping down to walk the runway's length. She's elegant in black, a floor-length, thigh-slit number that accentuates her shoulders, folds softly around her hips, and when she turns there's a hint of flight in the gun-metal silk that flutters from beneath her hem. She looks happy – confident, John thinks, content to be up there on her own – but even more, she looks beautiful, and John can see an echo of his own design ethic in the line of her bodice, in the straightened length of her hair.

"Well," says Heidi when they're called back for judging. "You made this very hard."

Teyla reaches for John's hand; he turns his head and realizes she's holding onto Ronon too. He smiles at her as best he's able, heart thudding painfully in his chest, and reaches for Rodney, slides their fingers together, knows exactly why Rodney's palm is damp as they hold onto each other, a team.

"In the end," Heidi says, "only three can go to New York Fashion Week. Teyla, we loved the simplicity of your gown, the unusual color, the way you softened your model, made her comfortable and so feminine. Ronon, there was a strength in your work that made Marta look impressively fierce. She carried herself with grace – this was largely your doing." Heidi turns her head. "John – you showed that you can do more than rethink classic black; you created something utterly spectacular and new. Rodney – you grew as a designer in this challenge; met your model where she began and created something that made her feel special. Teyla?"

John squeezes Teyla's hand.

"You're in."

Teyla gasps and John feels a tremor pass through her body before she looses his hand, hugs Ronon tightly, hugs John no matter how stiff he is in her arms, hugs Rodney and smiles as she leaves the stage.

"Ronon."

John feels Rodney's fingers flex between his – they're the only two still holding hands, but he feels no need to let Rodney go.

"You're in."

"Awesome," Ronon says, grinning proudly, punching the air before he cuffs John up the back of the head, and lifts Rodney clean off the ground.

"John, Rodney – one of you will be in, and one of you will be out."

Rodney squeezes John's hand; John figures his own knuckles have to be white with tension.

"John. Rodney. . . . you are both going to Bryant Park."

"YES!" John hears Rodney yell from a distance, and the next thing he knows his head is meeting the runway floor because McKay, having taken leave of his senses, has _jumped_ on him, and they're both in a heap, laughing like maniacs, fingers still entwined while Nina points and stares. "We're going to Bryant Park!" Rodney crows in the nanosecond before he kisses John right on the mouth, and John figures they can edit this out or show it and improve the ratings, either way, he doesn't care – just wraps his arms around Rodney's back, kisses him with every ounce of excitement and adrenaline and fractured, warm fatigue he has, breaking the kiss to laugh once he hears Ronon's appreciative snort; looks up to see Teyla beaming at them both as if she quite approves, and both Ronon and Tim looking ravished as if there have been shenanigans backstage.

"Bryant Park!" John says, and rolls onto all fours, gets up and pulls Rodney with him. "Team!"

And they pile on each other, hooting and laughing and carrying on like no finalists have ever done before - the secret being that they've already won.


End file.
